My Dearest Wrap Dress,
It’s been quite some time since we last connected, but I wanted to get reacquainted. At our last rendezvous over five years ago, we ate and were merry while celebrating my fast approaching wedding at my rehearsal dinner. While I don’t specifically recall who else I invited to the style party that night, I just met these shoes last week so I know they weren’t there. But my husband’s grandmother introduced me to this necklace as an engagement gift so very long ago, so it may have participated in the fashion festivities.
No matter who showed up that fateful night, it begot our first and last encounter after which I left you in my closet to collect dust while I got married, moved to Chicago, had two babies, and pretty much grew up. Through all my life’s milestones, you patiently awaited my return. You never gave up hope that one day I’d come back for you. Your patience paid off; I finally returned.
It’s funny. I recall receiving a compliment from a fairly stylish aunt that night noting you as evidence that I was finally developing a sense of style. (Intended compliment, and she was correct I had no style, so I can’t be insulted by the truth.) None-the-less, I didn’t follow the washing instructions and thought I ruined you. But I could never let you go, always loving you enough to keep you close but never enough to commit and rescue you from the darkest corner of my closet. Oh, the hope and heartbreak I’ve put you through.
I think it’s me, not you. But I’m not entirely sure. I seem to have a love / hate relationship with all wrap dresses, so maybe don’t take it personally? You’re comfortable. And you’re an entire outfit in itself; no morning matching or mixing mayhem with which to contend when we spend time together. Well, almost. Our relationship always becomes a menage a tois because you can’t go anywhere without your security camisole. We’d be a freak show without her, especially at my office.
Then there’s the “wrap” part. No matter how tight I pull your sash around my waist, it never seems to wrap enough to be a trustworthy protector of my upper thigh. WTF?! If I wanted a dress with a slit up to my underwear, I’d buy one. But I haven’t. And I won’t!
I live in Chicago now, not far from Lake Michigan, where a day doesn’t pass without at least the slightest of cool breezes. Most days, a strong gust prevails. I’m less than thrilled when you pull those Marilyn Monroe antics on me and aim to expose everything you’ve been called to cover. Yep, this happened. You forced me to walk over two miles home from work and to pick up my boys from daycare with one hand holding together my skirt, preventing you from playing show and tell show some more.
The verdict is in on the current status of our roller coaster relationship. Right now I kind of hate you; we’re definitely on a break. I hate even more that I want to love you. It’s so complicated! But I think if we go to just one sewing therapy session to add a few stitches to keep your wind-blown antics in check, I might just fall back in love.
Your Conflicted Friend,